The Funeral
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: Complete! A dark perspective in Bruce's future, and how it affects those that are close to him. How Superman, Robin, Catwoman, Nightwing, and even Alfred will deal with it. A story about how death reach us all, even Bruce Wayne, the Batman.
1. Bruce

Hello!

This story is hardly a story, I think. The idea I had was to make a bunch of one shots, introspective ones, about how a few characters would react if Batman died. It turned out to be a bunch of one shots with a common story, mostly trying to show how those characters see Bruce Wayne and Batman.

Also, the idea of death is something that I think should be more discussed, especially in comics – we see death all the time in heroes' stories, but they are mostly treated in a very superficial way. I tried to go deeper than we usually see, even though I realize I'm no expert.

I first wanted this story to have just one chapter, but it would be too long, so I think is more comfortable for the readers if it's divided in the six chapters you will see. And it gives to each chapter a more individualistic nature, that, in the end, turned out to be better for the story, I think.

It must be said that I don't intend to write more in this story, but I do realize that much more could be added into it. I'm open to suggestions, but I make no promises. I'm kind of satisfied with what I have so far, and, most likely, no new chapters will be added.

Finally, I apologize for the mistakes you will most certainly find in this story, and I would appreciate any feedback about grammar mistakes or bad use of words that you might notice. Reviews are always welcome, and I hope you can enjoy this story.

And, of course, none of the characters in the story belong to me. Not even one. However, I hope my job writing them wasn't all bad…

Thanks to all readers,

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

I've been to too many funerals.

I've seen too many deaths.

It started too soon for me. The first loss, the first corpse, the first pool of blood from a lifeless body.

Too soon. All too soon.

I've always seen death as the most dreadful thing. Death is a pair of cold, dark hands that rip off from you the most precious thing… the most precious person. Death is a loud blast, a burning dark hole that transforms... that changes one you know into vitreous, immobile eyes, and expressions of fear and pain.

That's death for me.

Death is my enemy. Death is the one thing I fight against. Death is the one I dare night after night. Other people death. My _own_ death.

I play with it. I make its territory my own. It can't reach me using weapons, or heights, or people, or luck… I've fooled them all, one by one, and all together. I took chances, and I won.

So death got its revenge. It attacked me where I'm most vulnerable. It went for my friends, for my family, for the kids, for the innocent. I fought those dark claws.

And sometimes I lost.

However, I never gave up. I wouldn't. I won't. I put myself in harm's way. I showed it my chest, I offered it my face. I knocked out the blades and the guns, the falls and the fires.

I survived.

And yet, somehow, I just kept wondering…

It's not a matter of "if"… it's a matter of "when".

It's a matter of _how_.


	2. Clark

People always ask me what I like the most about being Superman…

It never occurs to anyone ask me what I _hate_ the most about being Superman.

I hate the fact that there are things in this world that just can't be solved with super powers.

I hate the fact that having super powers makes impossible for you to ignore the problems you can't solve…

Lois keeps asking me what's wrong, and I can't tell her. Bruce forbade me, he made me promise. And I, oh, well, I can't break a promise. Not one I made to a friend. Not one that is so serious. Not a promise that is about…

But it tortures me! It's a dark, oppressive feeling that is eating me from inside, a painful agony. And I can't share it, I can't talk about it, not with Lois, not with… well, I just can't discuss it with anyone. Because, after all, _nobody_ knows. Nobody but Bruce and I…

Last night I visited him in his cave, his secret shelter, perhaps his true home. I don't like the place, to be perfectly honest. It is, after all, a dark and cold cave, so huge and so intimidating – a bit like Bruce himself, I guess. Anyway, I don't feel comfortable in there, and, truth to be told, I never feel welcome, even if I was invited.

That's what happened last night: Bruce called me. And that, believe me, is so unusual that I expected him to be on the verge of death, probably facing a threat that could destroy not only our world but, most likely, this entire reality and a few others. Yeah, because that's Bruce: he _never_ asks for help.

However, I was surprised – more than surprised, actually – to hear that he just wanted me to meet him in the cave. And you know what else? He even said…

"You don't have to hurry. It's a personal matter."

A _personal matter_. Oh, that's when I got scared. Because, really, of all things, all the amazing things I've yet to see in this universe, and, let me remind you, I've traveled in time and to different realities, the one phrase I thought I would never hear from Bruce was that he was about to discuss with me _something personal_.

So I flew. And I flew fast. I went to Gotham City beyond the speed of the sound, hardly giving me anytime to wonder what was all that about. Because I had no doubt it was something important, and, more than that, it was important to one of my friends.

Yes, of course we are friends! I know, I know. People still get surprised when I say that. And people who are close to me, like Lois, even ask: "But you are so different…! How can you be friends?" I understand that is quite unexpected, because we are indeed very different people. Not only as "heroes", if you want to call us that, but as individuals. Think about it: who am I but Clark Kent, reporter, married, son of an ordinary and peaceful farmer couple from Kansas? One might argue and say I'm actually Kal-El, an alien from Krypton, and one who holds amazing powers… but no. No, to be honest, I'm Clark Kent. _And _Kal-El, I guess, and Superman, and that guy with the red cape that saves the day every once in a while, but those are personas that I've incorporated during those years. Inside me, in my mind, when I think about myself, I'm Clark Kent, farmer boy.

Now, Bruce? Well, I guess you'll have to ask _him_, but no, he will not answer. Like me, I know he has many masks, different faces he uses depending on the occasion. Who he really is? I don't know. I know who he is _not_, however. I know he isn't Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy that just wants to have fun and spent his trust fund. I know he also isn't Bruce Wayne, responsible business man that cares only for his Wayne Enterprises. And, surprise, I know, I know that, deep inside, he isn't Batman, that cold crime fighter, brilliant mind but no heart. It's true that he wants people, mostly the criminals, to think he is the Dark Knight and nothing more. I know he is deeply obsessed about his crusade against crime, and no doubt he is the most brilliant man I've ever met. It's all true.

And you know what else is true?

To begin with, the fact that he cares about human life like no one else in this planet, me included. Bruce is the only guy in the world that wouldn't hesitate before putting his life in danger for someone else. And I mean, for _anyone_. This guy doesn't give himself time to blink before jumping in front of a bullet for someone, and, may I remind you, he has no super powers. He is the bravest man I know. He doesn't fear any weapon or adversary. He doesn't fear any kind of power, not even the one that comes from money, or politics, or any other source. He is faithful to himself at all times, and he does what he thinks is best, no matter if the police, or the president, or even God tells him different. That's the kind of power that I call super.

Finally, I know something… I know he would never forgive me for saying it, but here it goes: Bruce _has_ a heart. I mean it! He does! Well, not that much if he is dealing with thugs and masked villains, but in the rest of his life. Just think about all the people around him, and in how much he protects and cherish them. Just think of Dick and Tim, of how much he cares about those boys. Or about Jason…

Bruce wouldn't agree, but he _is_ a father.

Not to mention Alfred, the best friend anyone could have; or Barbara; or James Gordon; or many, many other people Bruce has helped and from whom he has received friendship, companionship… love? I can only smile to myself when I think about Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, and how Bruce insists there is nothing going on between them.

So, you see, there's more in him than just the Batman.

Or so I hope.

I got into the cave so fast that Bruce still held the communicator device he used to call me.

"I assume Metropolis is having an uneventful night."

It was his way of being funny. I smiled.

"So is Gotham."

It was around midnight, time in which Bruce is usually on patrol. He is very strict about his hours, and I was truly surprised to see he wasn't even dressed in his Batman outfit.

"Taking a night out?" I just couldn't hold my tongue or my curiosity. The unlikely scenario was made even weirder by the fact that neither Alfred nor Tim were around. Besides, Bruce seemed… different. Not only he wasn't in his uniform – and, I must say, he usually makes a point in only meeting with other heroes wearing his mask -, but he looked pale and tired. Don't underestimate him, however: it wasn't something anyone could detect. Actually, probably no one but me: super hearing showed his heart was beating faster than the usual, and breathing heavily; my vision could notice the muscles in his arms and back were tense, something very strange for the man that was fairly known for his ability to remain calm and cool even in the most desperate situation.

"I need your help to clarify something for me."

"What can I do for you?"

I remember, I will always remember the expression that suddenly took his features; his eyes, mostly his eyes. His eyes… were the eyes of someone that is facing something terrible, eyes that showed no hope, just a painful coldness.

And I wondered if that was Bruce's expression as he watched his parents die.

"Bruce?" I called him, and he pressed his lips together as he stared at me, now with an earnest expression. "What's wrong?"

"Can I trust you, Clark?"

I confess the question did hurt my feelings.

"That's a question only you can answer, Bruce."

He seemed to absorb my words, and took a deep breath:

"No, Clark… This is not about secret identities or crime fighting."

"What do you mean?"

He went to his chair – the one in front of the computer - and sat, still watching me, still judging me.

"Look, Bruce, if all those years were not enough to make you trust me…"

"I trust you." He supported his chin with a hand. "The question is: can I trust that you will take no action if I ask you to?"

"I'm here to protect and help people, just like you."

"I know. That's the problem."

At that point, I was really worried. This erratic behavior wasn't typical of Bruce. He wasn't sounding like himself.

"Bruce, what's the matter?"

"I'll tell you", he said in a husky, firm tone. "You must promise you'll keep it secret."

"As long as it doesn't put people in danger…"

"It doesn't."

"Okay, then."

He moved his chair until I was facing the back of his head.

"Look into my skull, Clark, and tell me what you see."

I did, and now I regret it. Like I've said before, the ability to see more than most people is not always a privilege, but can be a burden. I saw, saw everything, saw every detail, and, I must confess, while doing it, I couldn't keep my eyes from going wet.

And I understood why he wanted me there.

"Tell me, Clark; I want to know."

I closed my own eyes, and slowly turned my back on him. Took a deep breath, trying to regain control. I felt my hands trembling for the first time in a while, and I crossed my arms in front of my chest. At that time, all I could think of was that I wanted to fly, fly away, fly to a distant place out of the planet, and erase this new knowledge I had from my mind. I wanted to forget.

"That bad, hm?"

I heard the sadness in his voice.

"You already knew." I wasn't asking.

"Doctor told me this morning. But he didn't know the details. He needed other exams…"

"You should take it." I cleaned my throat, trying to sound more confident; still couldn't face him, though. "The exams, I mean. No one could really tell you anything for sure without the exams…"

"You can."

He was right. I could.

"I'm no doctor."

"You're Superman."

How could he sound so calm? How could he? Wasn't he the one that was…

"How long, Clark?"

"What?" I turned to face him, shocked that he was asking me that, and making no effort to hide my feeling.

"I asked 'how long, Clark?'"

"I heard you!" I remember his expression, the one he uses with me when he wants to show me he respects me… as an equal. Never as someone above him, not as someone more powerful, not as someone that could… could easily…

"Answer me, then!"

"No!" I snapped. I did. I yelled at him. "I can't answer that!"

And I flew. Turned my back on him again, and flew out of that oppressive, dark place. Do I regret it? I do. I shouldn't have done that, no matter how rude Bruce was. I should have stayed. He is my friend, and he needs me.

Sometimes I forget, even I, of all people. I forget that the Batman is just a mask, with a man under it. I forget it even when I'm dealing with Bruce, even when he wears no uniform. I keep forgetting… he is just human.


	3. Tim

Bruce says I'm the best detective he knows – after himself, of course. And the fact he says that always makes me wonder…

I've lived in Wayne Manor since my father died. It sounds simple, but it wasn't. Life has been complicated for me, and this too makes me wonder.

A few years ago I was just a kid with a hobby. I lived in a property near Wayne Manor, and I didn't have many friends. My mother was dead, and my father… well, my father wasn't in his best shape. Not to mention, my favorite games were not popular among other kids: I liked to investigate.

Detective stories and mysteries were my thing, and I think one could say I was kind of _obsessed_. I rather say I was focused. And curious, of course.

I guess that anyone hearing my story would say I was lucky, would say it was all a fortunate coincidence. Oh, these people don't know how a detective works. They don't know that, as detectives, we are supposed to look the overlooked, and see coincidences as clues. The fact that Bruce Wayne was my neighbor was truly helpful, but even if he lived on the other side of town, on the other side of the world… Well, it would only delay the inevitable.

The inevitable, by the way, was my discovery of Batman's secret identity. I did something that only a few have done to this day, and, let me tell you, it was much easier than convince Bruce he could use another Robin – that would be me.

Jason Todd had died, and Bruce… well, part of him, part of his dream died with my predecessor. I guess it took most of the joy of Bruce's life, and tossed him into a dark corner. That's what I think, and that's kind of what I told him when I reveled to him I knew his secret. I told him the Batman needed a Robin. I told him that nothing that is solely grown in pain and sorrow could go well. Not for long, anyway. And I offered myself as the new… well, teen wonder.

We all agree that's a silly name, right?

Maybe, but Robin's mantle is not. Robin is serious business, although it took me a few years to understand that.

For as crazy as it might look, Bruce accepted me. Trained me. Helped me. And I know it didn't have much to do with my speech about "Why Batman needs a Robin". It's not so much that Batman needed a Robin, but the fact that Bruce needed something less sad in his life. Bruce needed someone like me, that didn't know Jason, that didn't know so much tragedy, so much pain. Someone that could bring something other than grief into that cave.

From the day I first wore the uniform to the present date, things have changed a lot for me. I'm no longer just a kid playing detective. I'm no longer innocent. And I've had my share of tragedy and pain.

I saw Bruce fall in the hands of Bane, and I've seen Azrael take his place. I've seen Batman rise again, taking his city back. I've seen chaos take Gotham more than once, attacking it with disease, disaster, war. I've lost friends. I've lost people that I loved.

I've lost my father.

Now I understand Bruce. I know what he meant when he said didn't want me as Robin. He wanted to _protect_ me.

We don't always agree, Bruce and I. Not long ago, just before his death, my father discovered about my hero identity. It's fair to say it was one of the most difficult moments in my life; after all, I had to choose between my father and Bruce… and I chose the first. And then, after my father died, I was so confused… I still felt I couldn't betray his memory by accepting too much from Bruce. I didn't want anything that would feel like my father had been replaced, I didn't want to be Bruce's son. I didn't want to be like the Batman I thought I knew – dark, resentful, emotionless.

I was in pain, pretending not to be. I just didn't want the pain to destroy my life.

I used to think it was what destroyed Bruce's life.

However, time passed, and I realized… I realized… that I was wrong.

I came to live in Wayne Manor, and I had the chance of watch Batman more and more, watch Bruce, learn more about him. And I saw that, messed up or not by the many things that happened to him over the years, nothing can change that fact that he is a good person. Nothing can change the fact that he is a fighter. He doesn't quit, and he most certainly doesn't abandon anyone. He didn't abandon me, and God knows I asked for it, sometimes.

And for as much as he can be a difficult person to be with sometimes, Bruce is my family.

Thinking of that, I go down to the cave, where I know he is. I find him working on something, watching the computer screen attentively. He doesn't seem to notice me, concentrated as he is in his task, but I know better than that. I know he sees me, feels my presence, for nothing happens inside this cave without his knowledge. However, I also know he is not going to say anything, because he doesn't want to start a conversation that could lead to a subject he doesn't want to discuss. Therefore, I take the lead:

"We need to talk."

He pretends to be really busy, when I know he is not; the file he is working on is just a simple database. He doesn't know I've been spending most of my free time on this computer, trying to break secure codes and go through all the files and information. My intentions were noble: I was testing the security of the whole system. Unfortunately, I also came across a piece of information that was quite disturbing.

"Later, Tim."

I know the tone. It is usually used to mean "never, Tim".

"I'm not leaving until you speak to me."

He drops what ever he was doing in the computer, and turns the chair to face me.

"You're usually much more subtle about things."

"I guess you could say this is an emergency, or… how could I put it? Ah, yes, a matter of _life and death_, maybe?"

Not the proper moment for irony, I admit, but, as he said, I'm not a big fan of the direct approach.

"Tim… what are you talking about?"

He already _knows_ what I'm talking about, but he prefers to go on with this game. Bruce, Bruce, always unable to talk about the personal stuff, right?

"You're _sick_, aren't you?"

Although Bruce can be quite an actor, not all his efforts are able to hide from me the almost imperceptible tension in his jaw, or the way his fingers grabbed the arms of the chair with unnecessary strength.

"It _is_ true!"

No denial came from him, like I knew it wouldn't. I'm a detective, and I'm rarely surprised by events. However, sometimes I wish I was wrong, and this is one of these times. I sense my stomach going cold, and now I recognize in myself the fear, something I'm not used to feel.

"Tell me everything."

"I don't think I should."

Bruce's expression didn't change. He looks at me like he is thinking about something mysterious and secretive.

"Of course you should tell me. Why shouldn't you?"

He rises from his chair, and now I remember he is at least a foot taller than me. I follow him with my eyes as he walks around the cave, going a few steps away from me, but no further. He is wearing the uniform, but not the cape and the cowl – he won't leave for patrol for at least another hour. In his outfit, he always looks so powerful, so big, and even scary. However, right now, he just seems to me what he is: a man, and one that is not sure of what to say and how to act. It's a rare moment of vulnerability, and I watch it without displeasure: in a way, it's a relief to know he is human, just like me. To be honest, I now see we are very much alike, maybe always were. Even physically: we both have dark hair and dark blue eyes, and he trained me to be agile and strong as he is. I'm not like Nightwing, who has his own talents. No, I'm all like Bruce, and every move I know was taught by him, improved by him. I'm a detective, just like he is, and I too prefer to keep thing to myself, mostly my feelings. Yes, we are very much alike.

Almost like father and son.

"I didn't want you to worry, Tim…" Now he has both hands on his hips, and I read sadness in his eyes. "I knew you would find out sooner or later, but… I just wanted to spare you."

"Spare me? Of what? I… I've seen many ugly things in my life, Bruce… I…"

"I know. I know you have, kid."

In the past, I hated when he called me kid. Felt like he was reminding me he knows so much more than I do – maybe ever will. However, I came to understand that, most times, the use of this particular word was just his way of saying it's alright to be who I am: young, sometimes scared, sometimes full of doubts.

"I rather face this than be left in the dark. If you just wanted to protect me, Bruce…" I now realize my mouth is dry, and my heart is crazily jumping inside my chest. "Well, if it's all for my sake… I think I should be able to choose."

He smiles. Yes, he does. One of his rare, almost imperceptible smiles.

"Just tell me, Bruce."

"You already know, don't you?" He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You read the file."

I did. I found the file this morning, and I was so confused. Did my best to understand the information, the _medical_ information, researched as much as I could; all to be sure that what was written there wasn't wrong, wasn't a trick… To be able to believe the final words were not just a hunch, a hypothesis, a guess. So I could ask him:

"You're dieing, aren't you?"

And so I could be prepared to hear it from him:

"Yes, I am."


	4. Selina

Bruce, you're such a fool.

You went to my apartment last night, and I knew something was wrong the second I laid eyes on you. _Terribly_ wrong. I knew you were having problems, and not the usual kind: crimes, crazies, cops. No, I knew it was something else… something personal. Something that would change it all.

You said nothing, of course. I respected you, cause, after all, I always try to give you space. But, let me tell, from the second you entered through my window, I knew you were up to no good…

We've been through a lot, you and I, and I know you trust me… in your own way. Still, when was the last time you broke into my place and grabbed my hand the way you did, pulling me close to you like that, and kissing me on the lips? Well, let me think, it was… ah, yes, _never_. Not even when we were together.

I must tell you something, and I don't know if it's good or bad…

It was the _first time_ I felt true passion in you. The first time I felt you touch me with no hesitation or drawbacks, no regrets, no doubts. It had been good before, but last night… it wasn't good. It was great. It was a dream.

The way you pulled me close, and your lips pressed mine before I could breathe. Your fingers wrapped and lost in my hair locks, your chest against mine, your arms around me, all over me, and I felt… completely possessed by you. I was yours, all yours. You were all I wanted, all I imagined, and you were more.

But Bruce, I knew something was wrong.

You whispered my name close to my ear, _Selina_, _Selina_, you repeated. I felt precious and wanted, and that's all a girl like me wants to feel. That, and your hands on my skin, dancing on the right pace. Your mouth running all over my neck, up and down, and in a second we were on my bed. You over me, I under you, that's an old story for us, isn't it? But your eyes, the look in your eyes…

You were saying goodbye, weren't you?

I didn't deny that to you. Or to me. We deserved it, Bruce. We _needed_ it. I knew you were giving yourself entirely, and I did the same. So, I cherished every second, and kept a memory of your every move. Of every moment of pleasure and care, every single caress and kiss. Of your scent, your touch, your voice. Of having you inside of me…

You made me feel alive, and I know you felt the same.

Why did you do it, Bruce? Why? Don't you know how I feel about you? Don't you know I'll always miss you? Don't you know I _already_ miss you? Don't you …? Don't you know…?

Don't you know I love you?


	5. Dick

I've a picture of my parents, of my family, the three of us together, wearing our costumes as "The Flying Graysons". There we are, in colorful uniforms. I'm around eight years old, proud to be a prodigy trapeze artist, showing the biggest smile I could produce. Mom and dad are there, behind me, holding hands, and smiling too. Dad has one hand on my left shoulder; mom has her arm around my chest. We look happy, so happy… a perfect family.

It's my _only_ picture with them.

The problem is… no matter how long I look at it, how hard I try, I just can't… I can't… I can't actually _remember_ them.

Yes, it's true. I don't remember them, not really. I know their faces, of course, and don't need much effort to bring their images to my mind. Except that, every time I do it, I just can't see them wearing anything but the uniforms in that picture, and they are always smiling, smiling like they are in the photograph. Disturbingly enough, I don't remember their voices; I don't remember their smell, not even my mother's touch. I have almost no memories of our family dinners, or of my father teaching me acrobatic moves. The memories I do have – and that's the most awful thing – are incomplete, with my parents faces blurred and unclear. I just can't place them anywhere but in that picture, with their uniforms and smiles.

I wonder what a psychoanalyst would have to say about that, even though I'm not sure I would like to hear it.

Barbara once told me this happens because I was so young when my parents died, and since their deaths were so violent, I just blocked most things about them… a way of protecting my sanity, she said.

Still, I wish I could remember them. Perhaps it would help me right now…

Last week Tim called me, and he told me about Bruce; he said Bruce was _sick_, really sick…

He said Bruce was going to die.

I hung up the phone, and I was at home, alone. My apartment suddenly seemed dark, quiet, uncomfortable. Fifteen minutes passed, and all I did was stare at phone I had just dropped, standing still at the same place in my living room. And there I stood, with Tim's words in my mind.

_He is going to die._

I couldn't believe in it for a while. Not in those fifteen minutes, not in the hour that followed that, not for a couple days. I kept repeating to myself the statement, I kept reminding myself that Bruce was in trouble, that Bruce was sick, that Bruce was… _dieing_? No, I doubted. I didn't believe it, and I couldn't accept it. Something inside me just couldn't understand Tim's words as a fact.

The truth?

Here is the truth: I saw him _die_ a number of times. Or, better saying, I saw him escape death a dozen of times, and in so many different ways. I've seen him get shot, stabbed, poisoned, burned, beaten, you named it. Explosive cars, buildings on fire, planes crashing. He has been there, and lived through it.

How could a disease, a simple disease, something that can happen to _anyone_, kill the Batman? He is the Batman! And, of course, we all know the Batman can't be killed. We all know the Batman will never die.

After two days, Barbara called.

"What are you doing?", she asked, and sounded furious.

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't been at the Mansion for a while."

"Yes, I know."

I meant to tell her I was busy, but I knew it would only get her more upset.

"Why are you doing this, Dick?"

Her voice did show she was upset, and I knew Barbara enough to tell she was not as angry as she was… _sad_.

"I… I'm sorry…!"

"Sorry? Don't tell _me_ you're sorry." Her tone changed, and her voice was now a bitter whisper: "Tell _him_."

She hung up.

And I felt a cold, nauseating sensation in my stomach.

_It's for real._

Bruce was really dieing.

And I wasn't there for him. Me, Dick Grayson. His friend. The kid Bruce took in. The guy that was the first Robin.

His adopted son.

Barbara was right: what was I thinking? Why I didn't just went there, to stay with him, to help him, to… to…

Say goodbye.

Bruce was dieing. He really was. No, not the Batman; Bruce. Not the hero; the man.

And that's when I realized, as I wondered why I couldn't accept his death; I realized that, in my memories, I just couldn't really see him.

Oh, I could see and remember the Batman, that's all right. I could remember most of our patrols, most of our fights. I could remember in details that time we got Joker, or when we first faced Ra's al Ghul, or even the last time we fought against Two-Face. I had no trouble with memories of me growing up in the Batcave, surrounded by equipments and lessons of how to fight crime. I could remember most of our conversations… between Batman and me.

And what about Bruce?

Like my memories about my parents, I realized I was having a hard time to picture Bruce in my mind.

I arrived in Gotham as night did the same, a pale, full moon taking the sky. Night in Gotham, now _that_ did bring memories for me.

Alfred received me at the Mansion's front door, greeting me with an unexpected and unusual enthusiasm – he is always pleased to see me, but, as an English butler, he rarely shows it. He took me to the guest room, since now Tim is the new occupant of the room that used to be mine, and we talked for a while. He asked about my life, and I answered it gladly; we never touched the subject of Bruce's condition, however.

Finally, I asked where Bruce and Tim were, and Alfred just told me they were on patrol. This surprised me, and I couldn't help myself from saying it out loud:

"Should Bruce be doing that?"

"I've been asking myself this same question for at least twenty years now, Master Richard, but I concluded long ago it's a futile divagation…"

"Cam' on, Alfred… You know what I mean."

He said nothing for a moment, his usual cool and emotionless expression – except that, this time, I could read something in his eyes, something I couldn't quite tell what. Sadness? Anguish? It came and it was gone in a second.

"He is who he is, Master Richard. You, of all people, should understand that."

Inside me, something rebelled against that statement: "Is he, Alfred? Is this _all_ he is? The Batman, and nothing more? Nothing else matters but this?"

Alfred opened his mouth to answer, but an annoying sound interrupted him, a constant beep that came from a device he took from his pocket.

"The cave alarm", I recognized it immediately. "Did something happen?"

"We'll know in a moment."

Both Alfred and I ran to the cave, and I didn't even bother to change my civilian clothes for my Nightwing uniform. We arrived there just in time to see Tim helping Bruce out of the Batcar, as the man could barely stand on his own.

"Bruce!" I quickly approached them, making all I could to help Tim support Bruce; fact is, Batman probably has twice the weight our current Robin has, and even the both of us together had a hard time carrying him. I noticed he was half-conscious, and, to my surprised, as we laid him on the infirmary bed, he grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip:

"Dick", he said, his voice husky and faltering, "wh… t… re… you… d… here?"

I couldn't understand what he was saying, but Tim explained it to me:

"He wants to know what you're doing here." Robin said, not seeming to be a bit surprised or shocked by what was happening, by seeing Bruce like that.

"Why… what happened?"

Tim took a deep breath, and spoke as he helped Alfred by removing Bruce's heavy cape and cowl; they also put a pillow under his head, and Alfred prepared a shot with some sort of medication.

"He had a seizure." Tim's tone and reaction left no room for doubt: this wasn't the first time something like that happened.

"A seizure? While in patrol?"

"It had never happened while we were out there, all right?" Now Robin sounded slightly irritated, and I knew why: he was scared. "We were on our way home, nothing bad happened."

"But it could."

"I know."

Bruce mumbled something, and not even Tim was able to understand it, this time. That was when Alfred used the medication, some sort of tranquillizer, and Bruce immediately passed out.

"This will help him", the butler said. An attentive eye, however, would tell that Alfred's expression was anything but confident that Bruce could be helped.

"_This_ will help him?"

"He will be able to rest, Master Richard."

"Rest. That's an interesting choice of words."

"Give us a break, Dick!" Tim had lost his temper, and he now looked at me with his eyes sparkling with fury. "What do you care, anyway?"

"Master Timothy, please…"

"No, Alfred!" He lowered his tone, regaining control of his emotions; still, he stared at me with obvious resentment. "I called _days_ ago, Dick."

Tim removed his mask, now showing his face completely. And even though he was no more than a young teenager, his features were twisted somehow, making him look years older. He too seemed pale and tired, and appeared to be on the verge of crying.

"I… I'm so sorry, Tim. I didn't mean to abandon you… I… I just had no idea…" I waved my hand vaguely to the bed where Bruce was now sleeping. "I had no idea it was so _serious_."

"I told you he was _dieing_, Dick! How could you misunderstand that?"

"I don't know." My answer was simple and direct. There were simply no excuses.

"You don't know…"

"That's enough, Master Timothy." Alfred intervened, suddenly putting himself between us. Again he looked the calm and typical English butler, reminding me that he had always been the balanced and sensate person in that house, capable of minimizing most arguments and fights we – Bruce, Tim, Barbara, myself - not so rarely had. "Stop now before you regret your words."

Alfred rested a hand on Robin's shoulder, speaking in a gentle tone: "You too need to rest, lad. Why don't you go upstairs and change? I'll be up with a decent meal in a moment."

Tim's eyes wondered from me to Bruce: "He'll be fine, won't he?"

"Yes, lad." And I saw Alfred's fingers pressing Tim's shoulder, a reassuring gesture, and one that, in the past, had more than once helped me overcome difficult situations. "He'll join us for breakfast tomorrow, I promise."

I turned my back on that scene, hardly able to avoid my eyes from burning, burning from the tears I contained. Why did I feel like crying? It puzzled me, since I had been through so much in my life, and, even so, tears were not my way.

Yes, but seeing Tim there… and Bruce in that bed… both so… so helpless!

And helpless, of course, is just what you don't expect to see in the Batcave.

I heard Tim's heavy steps as he left the cave, followed by the sound of Alfred's long and deep breath.

"I'm so sorry, Alfred." It was all I managed to say.

"Worry not, Master Richard."

Despite his words, I knew I had much to worry about.

"Go stay with Tim, Alfred. I can stay with Bruce."

"Master Richar…"

"It will be fine, I promise. I can handle this."

He didn't move; instead, he just watched while I dragged a chair closer to the bed, making me wonder if he was expecting something else from me.

"What's the problem?"

"There is no problem, Master Richard… besides the obvious, that is." He waved his head towards Bruce. "However…"

"Well?"

"We never had a chance to finish the conversation we were having earlier; I trust you remember it, don't you?"

"I guess. It doesn't matter, Alfred, really. Not anymore."

He approached me, and, like he had just done with Tim, Alfred put a hand on my shoulder.

"Actually, lad, I think it's all that matters…"

"What do you mean?"

"I must tell you this, something that Master Bruce might never say, but I'm sure he wished he could."

Alfred had already done this before. It wasn't the first time he had spoken for Bruce, and, in my years living at the Mansion, I had many times been left alone with my anger, or my pain, thinking I had no one in the world. And yet, there was always Alfred. More than that, there was always Alfred to make me see that I had Bruce. Many times he helped me understand what meant to live with the man that was also the Batman. Many times he showed me that what I thought was a critic, or a scowl, was actually Bruce's way of showing he cared. Many times he made me see forgiveness where I thought there was none. Apologies where I saw only indifference. Respect that I once presumed to be disdain.

If not for Alfred, Bruce and I could have ended as two strangers that only lived, for some time, under the same roof. I would have never been able to understand him – even thought I don't quite get him that much today. And no doubt many lives would have been so different, so worse, if not for Alfred.

"You asked me before, Master Richard, if _this_ is all he is; if Master Bruce is the Batman, and nothing beyond that – although the Batman is a very demanding role, I'm positive you agree."

I nodded in agreement.

"Well, you, I'm afraid, misunderstood my words."

"It's okay, Alfred, it's not important…"

"Oh, no, it's very important!" He raised his eyebrows, emphasizing his words. "You see, Master Richard… when I told you Master Bruce is who he is, I didn't mean to say that he is this masked persona, the Batman; I meant to say that he is so much _more_ than the Batman."

"I don't…"

"I know you don't; let me clarify." He was now looking at Bruce, still unconscious in the bed, and my glance followed his. "Master Bruce is not someone that lives only under that suit, Master Richard. He is a hero, yes, in the most complete definition you can think of. As Batman, he fights crime, and no doubt his contribution in that field of action is immeasurably valuable; still, he is even bigger than that."

Alfred faced me again, and he had an inconspicuous smile on his lips.

"He is a man that, despite all the tragedy he saw and lived, was always able to bring hope to other people. Forgive me if my speech is somewhat _corny_, as Master Timothy would no doubt define, but, when I look at you, I know that it was not only the Batman that helped you grow into the fine person you are today. What most people don't realize, Master Richard, is that the Batman is just a cape and a cowl; and what counts, what _really_ matters is the man under it. His life as Batman, his life when he is not the Batman."

As Alfred spoke, I saw that day, _that_ day, years ago. I could remember a police officer talking to me, and someone offered me a blanked – I didn't want a blanked, I wasn't cold, I was just so _scared_! Someone told me to seat, it was an empty room, a chair, somewhere in the police station, and I could hear people saying, _poor boy, he has no one_, and I would close my eyes, but that was no good: I would only see my mother's face as she was falling to her death, and hear her painful, painful scream Lonely, I felt so lonely, and so lost.

_Hello, Richard. I'm Bruce Wayne_, he said. Then, he offered his hand, he, and adult, he offered me a handshake, a firm grasp, and a confident look, not full of sorrow, not full of pity… it was a look that showed me he could understand. _I don't want to make any presumptions about how you feel, but I can tell you this: you are not alone._

Not alone. He was right. That was what I feared the most, back then: face the world alone.

And now, now Bruce must face death alone?

"I wont leave again, Alfred. I promise."

"You don't have to feel obligated…"

"I want to."

I do. I know you were not always perfect, Bruce, but you were always the best you could be.

And this is something I will _never_ let myself forget.


	6. Alfred

I'm here, sir, I'm here.

You don't have to be afraid; it will be all right. Just hold my hand, like you use to when you were a boy.

Do you remember how your mother used to hold your hand until you fell asleep? It would prevent your nightmares, your childish nightmares, full of imaginary monsters and unrealistic dangerous. You dreamed children dreams, sir, when you were young and happy.

One night you left with your parents as a boy; it was morning already when you returned, no longer a child – you were broken and lost.

To this day I can't decide if I failed you or helped you. I recall again and again all the times I could have stopped you, all the many occasions in which I could have put an end into your obsession. Should I have done something different? Should I have imposed myself, should I have taken choices for you?

Still, you were so driven and focused. You were so brave and talented. You were, in such an early age, such a good person.

It didn't seem right to interfere.

However, I think about your father, and about the reasons he had to make me your guardian. I knew Thomas Wayne; I knew the kind of man he was, and what kind of man he wished you to become: a happy man.

Did your parents death ruined forever all chances of happiness you had in your life?

Or did I?

If I had said no to your search, if I had encouraged other interests or a different quest… could I have changed the course of your life? Could anyone? Or that man and his gun were the ones that traced your destiny, so long ago, in the filthy street of a dark alley?

Here, hold my hand. I will not allow you to suffer any pain.

After the tragedy, you had the most terrible nightmares. You cried alone in your room, and rarely would let me in. You grew silent and reserved. You would think, but you would never speak. Oh, I know you though this was strength; and I know I never told you otherwise. As a child, you probably thought you would only be strong if you could take it all by yourself.

I gave you education, I kept you company as your servant and as your friend. I promised myself I would never leave you, for, as exceptionally smart and prepared you were, you were still a man. You were flesh and blood, even though I sometimes wondered if you knew it yourself.

When your parents died, I wanted to make sure you wouldn't forget them. I didn't want to replace them, and I never intended you to see me as your father. Perhaps that was my mistake?

Perhaps, if I had been more like a father, you wouldn't feel the urge to pursue what could never be achieved: a way to fill the emptiness left by that loss.

It doesn't matter anymore, does it?

And now, don't be afraid. Do not fear what you don't know, for this is the destiny we all share. Close your eyes, and you will see your mother and father reaching out for you. They wait, they have waited for so long, and so have you. They know, they know it: you have done well, and they are so proud of you.

Just go to them.

Go.

Farewell, my son. Farewell.


End file.
